The Song of The Cannon

The Song of the Cannon
by Sam Walter Foss
 

When the diplomats cease from their capers,
Their red-tape requests and replies,
Their shuttlecock battle of papers,
Their saccharine parley of lies;
When the plenipotentiary wrangle
Is tied in a chaos of knots,
And becomes an unwindable tangle
Of verbals unmarried to thoughts;
When they've anguished and argued profoundly,
Asserted, assumed, and averred,
Then I end up the dialogue roundly
With my monosyllabical word.

Not mine is a speech academic,
No lexicon lingo is mine,
And in politic parley, polemic,
I was never created to shine.
But I speak with some show of decision,
And I never attempt to be bland,
I hurl my one word with precision,
My hearers - they all understand.
It requires no labored translation,
Its pith and its import to glean;
They gather its signification,
They know at the first what I mean.

The codes of the learned legations,
Of form and of rule and decree,
The etiquette books of the nations -
They were never intended for me.
When your case is talked into confusion,
Then hush you, my diplomat friend,
Give me just a word in conclusion,
I'll bring the dispute to an end.
Ye diplomats, cease to aspire
A case that's appealed to debate,
It has gone to a court that is higher,
And I'm the Attorney for Fate.